


Worship

by masulevin



Series: Tugging the Nug [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 03:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12786036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masulevin/pseuds/masulevin
Summary: Stuck in the Western Approach, Knight-Captain Rylen receives a letter from Ceri Adaar that inspires distracting thoughts and a few moments of solitary pleasure.





	Worship

Rylen isn't actually certain if it's possible for a person to literally boil alive inside their armor, but he may just be the first. One for the history books, an amusing footnote in the annals of the Inquisition:

_ And Knight-Captain Rylen of Starkhaven, first commander of Griffon Wing Keep, was found boiled to death like a large, unappetizing lobster. _

Sweat rolls down his back as he imagines being found, red-faced and very dead, and he wonders briefly if Cullen would feel bad for sending him to his death at the hands of high temperature and baking sun.

Before his mind can go too far down that path, he distracts himself with remembering what’s waiting for him if he can survive a few more weeks of sandy torture.

A letter rests in his pocket from the morning’s delivery of mail and supplies, teasing him with its proximity and his vague knowledge of its contents. Ceri, his -- he doesn't know what to call her exactly,  _ sweetheart _ sounds childish and  _ lover _ is awkward... his  _ person  _ is, apparently, content to await his return to Skyhold but not without teasing him from the other end of Orlais.

She remembered his curiosity about traditional Qunari armor and his barely disguised arousal at the thought of her wearing the strips of cloth and rope. She teased him during that conversation, accusing him of just wanting to conquer a  _ wild ox _ , but he corrected her.

Or… he thought he had. But she’d remembered his reaction regardless and, apparently not offended by the idea, put some chantry-provided drawing lessons to a use decidedly  _ not  _ chantry-approved.

Sitting in his pocket, carefully rolled to preserve its contents, is Ceri’s All Heart’s Day present. An amazingly detailed drawing of herself as she was during her mercenary days after the Circles fell, all firm muscles and flowing hair, staff in hand, ice flowing from her fingers, body barely hidden under antaam-saar.

His face, in a reaction completely unrelated to the overwhelming heat of the Approach, starts to turn red as he compares the Ceri he knows and remembers with the one drawn for him.

She's the same tall woman, taller even than him, strong enough to lift him or pin him down, giving enough to let him hold her horns when she's on her knees before him, beautiful as her eyes flash up at him from between his thighs.

A bead of sweat rolls from under his helmet, across his forehead, and drips off the end of his nose. He frowns and wipes ineffectually at his face.

Ceri never seems to sweat, no matter how hard he works her. He’s seen her peak five times and still look fresh as a daisy, while he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will, sweat slipping down his back to follow the curving lines of ink on his side.

She doesn't mind, though. At least she's never complained. She just digs her nails into his skin and asks him for  _ more  _ like the desire demon she is, straight out of his most secret dream from his days as a true templar.

Despite the heat and the sun and the  _ fucking sand  _ and the sweat under his armor making him itch, the memories combine with the picture to stir arousal low in his belly, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot to distract himself.

Ha supposed to be on  _ watch  _ right now, taking his turn to watch the desert for raiders (or darkspawn or demons or varghests), and he can't do that job right if he's distracted trying to remember exactly how Ceri tastes when she comes on his tongue.

Or how she sounds when he’s teasing her -- his fingers inside her but barely moving, his lips on her breast -- all breathy moans and whines and quiet curses before she loses patience with him and takes what she needs.

Those are some of his favorite times, when she uses her size and strength to control their fucking, when she holds him down and  _ demands  _ her own pleasure from him, when he's powerless to do anything but give her what she deserves.

Maybe that’s what she’ll do when he goes back to Skyhold. She’ll wear her antaam-saar for him and she’ll have him worship her the way she wants and the way she  _ deserves _ .

He’ll begin by reacquainting himself with every inch of warm gray skin already revealed: her lips and her ears and her neck and her shoulders and her stomach. He’ll do whatever she bids him to, her willing prisoner.

He’ll remove the cloth pants, leaving her in the draping blue fabric and white ropes around her breasts and hip, keeping her modest but only barely so.

He will fall to his knees before her and feast on her until he  _ drowns. _

“Knight-Captain?”

Rylen jumps, visibly startling at the sudden presence beside him even though he should have heard the younger recruit approaching him. She gives him a mildly concerned look, eyebrows drawing together, but she salutes him respectfully.

“It’s watch-change, ser,” she says. “I’m here to relieve you.”

He blinks dumbly as his lust-addled mind takes a moment to process her words.

Then, he nods. “Ahh, aye.” He struggles for words. “Yes. Thank you, Prescott.” He salutes her again, then turns on his heel and marches away as fast as decorum will allow him.

He doesn't go to the canteen for dinner or even to the baths. He goes straight to his room and begins peeling his armor off as soon as the door latches behind him. He takes half a second to lock it before divesting himself of clothes completely.

Standing in the relative coolness of his room, he’s able to relax the tense muscles of his shoulders and back. There’s water waiting for him in a pitcher -- not much, not in a desert, but enough for a quick wipe-down with a cloth to remove the day’s sweat and much of the sand.

He doesn't want that grittiness plaguing him now as he sinks onto his narrow bed and pulls Ceri’s picture out again to gaze at the strong lines of her muscles, the gentle swells of her breasts and hips, and the  _ power  _ that she so clearly exudes from every fiber of her being.

His other hand dips down to grasp himself, quickly coaxing his cock to grow and harden. He sighs in relief as pleasure fills him, little bursts that take the edge off the arousal that’s been swirling in him since the mail arrived.

He’s not in the mood to tease himself. It's been too long since he was with her; it's been too long since he even took himself in hand and worked himself through to completion to thoughts of her.

Grease still waits in a little tin by his bed. It's good for sunburn or when the wind chafes his cheeks, but it’s also good for…

He bites his lip to hold back the moan as his slicked fingers coat his cock, the glide so much better on the smooth skin than his bare fingers had been just moments before.

His grip firm, he sets a steady pace, tugging up and down and twisting a bit to tease the tip. He puts Ceri’s picture down, reverently, and falls back onto his blanket to close his eyes.

He pictures her above him, hands on his chest to hold him in place, fingernails scratching at his skin until he has little bloody marks on each shoulder. He pictures her fucking him with the same single-minded determination as always, chasing her own end even as he rushes to his.

Little grunts escape him with each breath as his hand works over his shaft, the only sounds he’s willing to let escape when he’s alone. He tries to remember what she sounds like as she tells him not to come until she says, as she cries out without shame, as she rises and rises and then crashes over him with a scream.

He spills as a breath catches in his throat, pulses of pleasure racking his body. Air pushes from his lungs on a low grunt as though he’s been punched, and his whole body shivers as more seed falls onto the taut muscles of his stomach.

_ Maker,  _ he misses her. Skyhold is too fucking far away.

**Author's Note:**

> Send dirty pictures to the Knight-Captain. He deserves them.


End file.
